


Coolness Factor

by softieghost



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Humor, I don't even know how I'm tagging this, M/M, Otabek's awful gold free skate costume created this, Post-Canon, Two boys trying very hard to peacock around one another, Unresolved Sexual Tension, beginning relationship, humor? is this funny? idk, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-03 19:17:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12153102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softieghost/pseuds/softieghost
Summary: Otabek has, for a long time, kept up a certain image. Yuri crushes it.





	Coolness Factor

Yuri's eyes are shining so bright as he looks around the city Otabek can swear he can see them through the leopard-print motorcycle helmet Yuri is wearing on the back of his bike. Yuri’s head swivels in the mirrors, chasing new sights and sounds while his hands clutch around Otabek’s middle, holding tight as they speed away from the airport and towards Otabek’s new apartment in the heart of Almaty. 

It’s Yuri’s first time in his city and Otabek knows he needs to make it count. 

On their first day together Otabek takes Yuri out to eat at one of his favorite restaurants. Otabek orders for them, making Yuri eat all kinds of Kazakh cuisine that he’s never had before. Yuri accepts horse with minimal complaint, tries kumis even though he’s red-faced the whole time, but rejects offal outright. 

“Are you scared?” Otabek asks, trying not to smile. He himself doesn’t like it but he wants to see Yuri try at least. 

“No. I just don’t want it.” Yuri retorts, turning his head away from the plate. 

Otabek smiles. Yuri always looks funny when he pouts, his forced-maturity slipping away. 

In Otabek’s apartment Yuri is clearly trying to keep his facade up. His eyes go wide for a second before narrowing, and his voice always sounds tight. 

“So, like, what do you do around here?” He asks, trying not to stare at the wall of bookshelves housing records and medals. 

Otabek understands the question and knows that the only acceptable answer is to sneak Yuri into his club that night, even though Yuri isn’t of-age yet. 

“This is cool, I guess.” Yuri shouts. He’s had two shots. His face is pink. He’s actively dancing and very clearly, painfully, is having fun. He can’t stop smiling and laughing. He stares around the club, looking at beautiful men and women, the bar, the DJ booth. His head swivels around the same way it did from the back of Otabek’s bike. 

When it’s Otabek’s turn to start DJing - a prime shift that starts at eleven and lasts well into the morning - he brings Yuri into the booth with him. The only light in the booth is a dim overhead and the shining blue from his open laptop and Yuri’s phone as he takes pictures for Instagram. Otabek slides his hands over the controller like he’s competing. He uses every bit of fumbled grace he has, he tries to be powerful, he tries to stop his fingers from shaking on the buttons and knobs as Yuri stands too close and breaths on his neck. 

_ Come on, Altin, you do this all the time.  _

“Put something on and come dance with me.” Yuri says to him. Yuri has to reach up and pull his headphones down to say it, brushing his fingers in Otabek’s hair. 

“I can’t leave.” Otabek lies. It’s an easy lie, one he uses every once in awhile for varying reasons. Never this reason though. Never to deny himself, usually to deny others. 

“I don’t want to go out there alone.” Yuri says, opening up his phone again. 

“I guess we’re stuck.” 

In the morning Otabek’s head hurts and there’s a picture of him hunched over in the booth approaching ten-thousand likes. He closes his eyes and sighs, knowing that the picture helps him achieve what he wants despite its intrusive nature. He can’t ask Yuri to take it down, not when he has an image to uphold, but he can’t stand the thought of fans crashing his club. 

_ A modern Catch-22  _ he thinks to himself once he’s able to peel out of his bed and get into the shower. There’s blonde hair in the drain. 

Yuri makes blinis for breakfast. It’s the morning of the third day and they’re staring down the end of the barrel of the weekend. Yuri flies home in four days, on Saturday. In between then and now, though, Otabek still has plans for them both so he focuses on them. They’re more important than his departure, even as it looms. 

They sit in a comfortable silence at his table eating breakfast - something Otabek never knew he could experience with someone as loud and brash as Yuri but he’s learned how Yuri curls into himself sometimes when he’s feeling strange, or when he’s thinking about something. He sees it now. He sees white cream on Yuri’s mouth from the blini. He looks away. 

“We’re going for a drive today.”

Yuri looks up and blinks at him, like a cat that’s been woken up. Otabek can practically see Yuri’s pupils dilate as he tracks. 

“Cool.” He states, very uncoolly. 

Yuri bought his own leather jacket in St. Petersburg before the trip, telling Otabek he needed one for all the bike rides he was expecting Otabek to take him on. It was dark red, not quite maroon, and fit him so well Otabek felt wrong looking at Yuri when he wore it. He managed to match it with the leopard helmet, a gift from Otabek on his birthday. When Yuri zipped it up and tucked his phone into his pocket, silently indicating that he was ready to go, Otabek had to walk in front of Yuri just to stop from looking. 

He didn’t know what Yuri liked, aside from garish fashion and skating, but he’d had five years to ruminate. He knew what  _ he _ wanted. He knew he’d probably have to wait a little longer. 

Yuri clutched him all the way to Medeu the same way he clutched him on the way back from the airport. Tightly, and with his hands clasped, and his head turning. 

Yuri shucks his jacket over his bag as soon as they arrive at the ice rink. He tugs his skates on faster than Otabek would have imagined possible and was off in the blink of an eye. He’d make a joke about the call of the ice but he’s more impressed than anything. 

Yuri doesn’t care that they’re at a public rink. He zips around toddlers and young couples holding hands. He dances around the people that think they’re good but aren’t as well as the people who think they’re good and probably are, even as amateurs and hobbyists. Otabek tries to follow him but can’t - Yuri’s still smaller than him even though puberty has latched into his shins and shoulders at last and he’s still faster, still more agile and graceful. Otabek knows one day Yuri will be bigger than him. He also knows Yuri will still probably be more graceful and flexible than him even then, too. But what Otabek has always lacked for in ballet he makes up for in power. Yuri is faster but he jumps higher. He’ll always have that. 

They skate for the better part of the morning and afternoon. It’s untrained, reckless, and sloppy but it’s also more fun than Otabek’s had on the ice in a long time. He loves the ice but he doesn’t always like it. Today he likes it. 

Yuri and he dance around one another, egging the other on. Yuri falls on his ass more than he used to and grumbles about growing taller. Otabek feels hot laughter bubbling in him the whole day. His face hurts from smiling as Yuri starts the rough beginnings of a new program. It’s only June and Yuri already knows where he wants to go. He ties his hair up and brushes his sweat from his forehead. 

The conversation turns to skating, like it always does, but it’s still fun and lighthearted unlike when he talks about skating with his friends or family. They only ever ask him about the Olympics no matter what year it is or what his favorite “jump” is. Yuri asks him about how he strings elements together, asks him if an axel off the back counter is “too much” (no), asks him if adding in dance elements for the surprise of it all will get him compared to Victor (yes, but he should do it anyway). Yuri asks him what he should wear. Otabek denies an answer. 

Yuri becomes more comfortable in Otabek’s apartment as the week passes. He lounges on the couch, feet up on the leather even though he’s bandaged. Yuri eats through his fridge with the power than only a sixteen-year-old boy can. Yuri laughs loud and often, quieting only as they watch movies or during breakfast. 

“I’m worried about my grandpa.” He admits over eggs on Thursday morning. “He’s been sick a lot lately.” 

Otabek doesn’t know what to say to that so he doesn’t say anything at all, choosing to instead give what he hopes is an appreciative and sympathetic look. He’s out of his element here but Yuri keeps talking so he supposes it works. 

That night they have dinner with Otabek’s parents. Yuri is very obviously intimidated. Otabek’s father is a large, impressive man with a greying beard and the same frown that Otabek has. His mother is much more personable, and as short as he is, but still incredibly smart and sharp-tongued. Yuri has no parents, let alone fierce ones. 

When they ask, Yuri goes red and splutters. Otabek changes the subject quickly and easily, moving from Yuri’s parents to Yuri’s career. It’s the same transition Yuri does when he’s in front of reporters - he’s much more comfortable there. Even still, Yuri remains stiff and awkward throughout dinner. He pays for himself, refusing to let someone else spend money on him. 

“I expect to see you tomorrow morning, Otabek.” His father says, looking down at him. It’s the longest sentence he’s uttered all night. 

And so, in the morning, Otabek gets dressed and tells Yuri he doesn’t have to come but can watch if he wants. Yuri follows him, intrigued. He’s never been to a mosque before, he says, getting dressed himself. 

Yuri watches the men pray from a balcony. Otabek can feel Yuri’s eyes on him the entire time he spends standing, kneeling, and face to the floor next to his father, who does little more than greet him. Yuri’s eyes burn into his back. He’s not ashamed of being brought up religious, or even the possibility of believing in God (although he does not know if he does), and he is not ashamed of being born in a Muslim-majority country, but he does not like bringing outsiders in to watch him do something he in uncomfortable doing. He hasn’t prayed in a long time and so he cannot stand baring his throat to Yuri like that. 

On the ride home, though, Yuri says through their intercoms that are hooked up to their helmets that he thought it was cool. 

“It was like a dance, I guess.” He says. “I’ll bring you to church when you visit Russia. Grandpa always makes me go.” 

There’s nothing else to do for the rest of the day besides be around each other. Otabek made no plans, allowing Yuri to offer suggestions for his last day. He doesn’t suggest anything, though, so they watch movies and play video games and talk all afternoon. In the evening, a few drinks in, they continue to talk, failing to run out of topics. Otabek doesn’t think he’s ever spoken this much in one day, stoic personality or not. 

Otabek has never worried so much about being cool and entertaining than he has with Yuri in his home. Now, though, the ease of their friendship dilutes the image he’s been trying to uphold his whole life. Yuri has always crushed his masks into dust. He did it at training camp, he did it in Barcelona, and he does it now. He allows Otabek to approach his real self for the first time in a long time. 

“That hoodie you have, with the white square? Where did you get it? I want one like it.” Yuri asks, unprompted. He’s pink and flushed like he was in the club even though they’re just wearing sweatpants and shirts and folded up into the leather couch instead of dancing. 

“You can have it if you want.” Otabek says. “I don’t wear it that much anymore.” It’s a lie, the second lie he’s told Yuri all weekend. He loves that hoodie more than anything he owns but he’s willing to give it up if he can see Yuri in it. 

_ I’m screwed, aren’t I?  _ Otabek thinks to himself. 

Yuri bolts up off the couch, teetering from the alcohol and his gangly, hormone-ridden body, and goes into Otabek’s bedroom. Yuri hasn’t been in there before, keeping his distance out of politeness or awkwardness or something else, but he goes in now with the confidence of someone who’s spent a lot of time staring at Otabek’s closet and personal things. 

Otabek follows him. Yuri will never find it on his own, his room is too much of a mess. 

In Otabek’s bedroom Yuri begins to paw through his closet. It’d be rude if they weren’t best friends, or maybe it’s still a little rude but Otabek doesn’t mind. Yuri glances through everything with the practiced eye of Lilia Baranovskaya - quick to judge but always right. He goes through Otabek’s clothes, blocking the entrance to the closet so Otabek is forced to sit on his bed and watch Yuri move, something inside of him that’s not alcohol making his stomach go sloshy. 

Yuri gets to the back of his closet and, with no hoodie in hand, begins to whine in frustration. It’s almost cute in the same way it’s almost rude. 

Yuri puts his hand on a pile of cardboard boxes that are shoved in the back, behind everything, hidden from view. 

“Actually - “ Otabek starts. 

Yuri opens the top box, accidentally dumping its contents on the floor in his haste. 

“It’s not in - “ Otabek tries again. 

Yuri scoops up the pile of fabric and shoves it in the box it came out of before opening the box beneath it. 

“Yuri, please.” Otabek sounds pained in his own ears but Yuri isn’t listening. 

Otabek closes his eyes as the cardboard flaps of the box rub together. His fate is sealed. 

On the very top is the worst thing Yuri has ever seen in his life. He gasps, a little, before gingerly pulling the garment out. All of Otabek’s hard work - the carefully planned days, the interesting food, the club, even the mosque, all for naught. There’s no way Yuri will respect him after this. 

“Hey, uh, what the fuck?” Yuri asks, holding up the jacket. 

Otabek keeps his eyes closed, and breathes in. He does not answer. 

“Beka, what the fuck is this?” 

_ ‘Beka’, he says. I’ll never hear that again, will I?  _ Otabek thinks to himself. 

Once, when he was young, he fell through a frozen lake. He was tall enough to stand on the bottom and at no risk of drowning but this moment is how he imagines it would have felt if he had gone under. Icy, dangerous, and surrounding. 

“I was supposed to wear it in the last Grand Prix.” He chooses his words carefully, hoping that Yuri won’t poke the bruise any further. 

“Why?” Yuri’s got his head cocked to the side and his hair is falling in his face. He’s gone from almost rude to almost cute to definitely cute and Otabek just accepts that this is the last time he’ll ever see Yuri Plisetsky. 

“I, um, wanted to design my - “ Otabek gets cut off by the howling laughter that comes out of his friend’s mouth. He’s never been laughed at like this but he supposes that he deserves it. 

“It’s worse than what I wanted.” He tries again, but Yuri keeps laughing. 

Yuri tugs the tacky crushed velvet on over his shoulders. It sags a little, too wide, but he wears it almost well. As well as anyone can wear something that’s so fucking gaudy. Yuri keeps laughing, red in the face, and models the jacket in the mirror to himself. He takes a picture of himself in it, surely to put it on the Internet, surely to garner more attention than any cool shot of him DJing, surely to end their friendship in outright humiliation. 

“Oh, Otabek, what the fuck? This is awful.”

Yuri takes the jacket off, placing it gingerly on the ground next to the pants as if it is a live animal that will bite if disturbed, and sits down on Otabek’s bed next to him. He’s still laughing a little. 

“Are you going to end our friendship?” Otabek asks. He feels dread creeping in around his thoughts. Yuri is picky and touchy and finicky. It isn’t out of the question that he would block Otabek on all rarely-used social media now that he  _ knows.  _

“No, Beka, I still like you.” There’s a strange look in his eye. 

The air rushes out of the room. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks tootsonnewts for telling me (well, not specifically me, but whatever) to write this.


End file.
